


Deviation

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [7]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Bottom!Butcher, Bottoming from the Top, Choking, Episode: s01e07 The Self-Preservation Society, Infidelity, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Pain, Possessive Behavior, Restraints, Rope Bondage, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 09:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: "This is gunna hurt," Butcher warns, and Hughie's aching for it, too lost in watching liquid drip down capable fingers to contemplate their positions, to realise that what he's expecting cannot be possible.Butcher's right. It does hurt.When he reaches back and -Hughie can't see, he needs to see- slides one of those fingers inside himself, Hughie makes a senseless sound caught between an objection and a plea and nearly shreds the skin on his wrists with how violently he struggles, desperate to touch.





	Deviation

Annie is sweet and soft and beautiful, all sweeping lines and curves. She smiles at him, when they’re naked and close, in between kisses. When she comes, it should be awesome, the thing she does with her eyes, but Hughie has heard horror stories and his dick instinctively recoils at the visceral memory of hearing a man explain how his had been frozen off.

By the end, Hughie hasn’t felt so much as a graze of her teeth. He has light scratches on his back, but nothing that will survive until the morning, nothing that will remind him of this. She’s infinitely stronger than him, and maybe it would come with time, but she’s shy and submissive and while it’s pleasant enough, an interesting change from being held down and fucked, for a while, it’s not- sustainable.

She asks him questions, and the lies come easier than ever. He can imagine introducing her to his dad. He’d be so happy to see that Hughie was doing well that he wouldn’t even question whether Hughie was ready, whether it was appropriate so soon after Robin to be finding another lovely, sweet girl who knows what she's going to do with her life.

He can imagine so much, but even as he does, the picture of them both seems implausibly glossy and clean. They’d look so good in carefully chosen photographs. But he’s still a murderer, and Annie’s still a superhuman working on a team with the man who killed Hughie’s girlfriend. And the man who raped and killed Butcher’s wife. And the man who raped her.

And she doesn’t know anything about him.

And Hughie misses Butcher, who knows all of the terrible things and wants him anyway. Who made him into this person, the one who is terrified to find out what he might be capable of but is also stronger than he has ever been.

Whether that’s a good thing or not, it feels like a step up from vaguely disliking himself.

But he doesn’t like who he is, with Annie. 

-

It takes A-train threatening his dad for Hughie to feel something rising inside him, to make him wish he was the cold, calculating killer Butcher’s been trying to convince him he already is.

It makes him realise a few other things too, but in between what passes for planning around there, he only manages to snatch a few words with Butcher, leaning in to speak low while the others are attempting to cope with the threats to their families. Butcher makes no calls. The only people he has are right there.

“I’m sorry,” Hughie says, and Butcher’s impatient glare tells him it’s not the time, maybe never has been, but of all the ways Hughie has refused to listen to him, he thinks this might be the most important. “I know we don’t have time to- unpack everything. But I’m sorry. I still- it doesn’t change whatever the fuck it is I feel for you. I just got caught up in wanting to feel like my life was normal again.”

“I’ve got no claim over you. We play our games, but I know I don’t. And this-“ Butcher gestures to the larger chaos of the room- “is not your fault, but it is your fault that we’re gonna have a murderous spurned cunt of a supe on that team rather than one who might be reluctant to pull the fucking trigger on her friend.”

“She’s not a bad person.”

“Neither are you. And look what fucking happened.”

They stare each other down for a while longer. It’s a challenge, on both their parts, Hughie knows, but also- he’s realistic. They’re about to go up against an inhuman force powered by a multinational corporation. One of them already has his dad. This could be the last time he ever sees Butcher and fuck, he regrets so much.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Hughie. I need you together for this. Mind on the job. Don’t fuck this up any more than you already have.”

Butcher says it specifically to hurt him, Hughie knows. It works. But it also makes him take a deep breath and find his resolve. He’s not going to fuck this up. “It won’t happen again.”

He thinks Butcher understands just how much is encompassed in that single statement. He doesn’t respond, maybe doesn’t even believe him and Hughie couldn’t blame him if he didn’t, but there’s less tension around his eyes.

Apparently there’s plenty of tension elsewhere though, because Hughie hears Mothers Milk ask, “What’s up with them?”

And Frenchie responds, “They are fucking, too. Did you not know?”

“No! What the fuck, Butcher?”

“This is not up for discussion!” Butcher barks, and Hughie’s so relieved that he doesn’t correct the statement to the past tense that he doesn’t even say anything.

Except, then, Mothers Milk turns to him, “How are- have you got some sort of magic dick tucked away in there?”

It does look pretty bad, Hughie will give him that. “No, I just-“

“This is not the fucking time.” Butcher’s tone leaves no room for argument. He does look to Hughie, though, and says, “Give A-train what-for.”

It’s a dismissal, and it’s something else. Encouragement? A promise? Hughie isn’t sure, but he offers a shaky smile and a nod in response.

It doesn’t stop Mothers Milk pulling Hughie aside as he leaves, though. “You’re fucking him, and Starlight, and you said that, earlier? About his wife? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Hughie’s sort of been wondering that, himself. He feels terrible, himself. “I just wanted to hurt him in the moment, alright? I was confused.”

“Confused? You think that man lets anyone in, ever? You think he fucking tells his life story to everyone he picks up for a fuck? And then- Starlight? You go and fuck some supe on the side and act like you have the moral high ground here? You called him out in front of everyone for grieving when I know for a fact he’s never forced you to be here. It wasn’t a minor disagreement. This is fucking unhealthy.” Mothers Milk turns away but he’s not quite done and adds, as he goes, “You’re not good for him.”

Hughie stares after him for a moment, and then he goes, too. He can’t think about this right now, can’t dwell on the knowledge that he might have done more damage that he’d thought. That he might have been allowed to hurt the most impenetrable man he knows.

Then again, Translucent was impenetrable too, and Hughie still managed to tear him apart from the inside.

So much for not thinking about it.

-

He can’t lie to Annie any more. But it turns out telling her the truth hurts, too.

Probably not as much as when Butcher shoots her in the chest, but maybe that’s not really a fair comparison to make. And Hughie had put her on the spot. What choice did he leave her with, except to bring him in?

He hasn’t been fair to her at all. He’s definitely not being fair to her when he runs.

That’s his choice. And when he realises, when he thinks about it, all he’s done to Butcher, all he’s said, and the fact that he came back when he could easily have left Hughie behind-

Hughie would make that choice all over again.

-

They get to the motel, into a room that’s definitely not fancy but it does feel safe, shut away from the world. It feels infinitely better than the one Hughie shared with Annie, an eternity ago.

The car ride had been spent mostly in silent, Butcher ignoring him or on the phone to various other parties, arranging transport for the others and all the resources he could piece together.

Nothing feels resolved, and Hughie’s on edge, but when that door closes behind them, and Butcher lets out a long sigh, and then he regards Hughie with a familiarly neutral expression, Hughie thinks he knows what to expect. It’s what they’ve always done, what works for them, the only way they know how to communicate without everything breaking down between them.

He nearly sobs with relief when they drift closer together, drawn by magnetism or instinct or just what they want, and Butcher steps in and slowly, firmly eases Hughie back against the wall with a hand wrapped around his throat. The rest of the world starts to fade away, everything Hughie’s done wrong, all the mistakes he’s made, all the risks he’s taken that could have destroyed them all.

And then Butcher leans in, and he asks, in a voice that Hughie’s never heard from him before, “Why’d you do it, Hughie? Why’d you have to fuck her?”

Hughie almost has to squeeze his eyes shut against how much that hurts. The real question, _‘Was I not enough for you?’_ is unspoken, but Hughie hears it all the same, and darkness spreads through him with every agonising squeeze of his heart. When he’s there, with Butcher warm and solid and not being a complete asshole, he can’t imagine wanting anything else. He tries to explain, can’t quite get a grip on all the emotions he was feeling at the time, all the reasons he had thought it was a god idea. They seem so distant, unconnected to his reality, now. “I saw Robin. Watching me. Us. Me and Annie.”

“Dead girlfriend’s a pervert. Nice.”

Hughie ignores him, partly because he knows it’s just posturing, trying to distract or to get to him, and partly because he can see her so clearly in his mind, picture the expression on her face and it hurts. “She always looked sad, before. I kissed Annie, and she just- disappeared. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Well, if your grief-addled hallucination thinks so-“

He’s such an asshole. Hughie ignores him harder, but he can’t quite articulate his thoughts, manages- “You said we were doing it for them. I was trying to-“ before he stops.

“What?”

“Trying to be happy. Like she’d want. Like I was before.”

“You’re not that boy she dated, Hughie. You’re different. She’s got no idea what makes you fucking happy anymore.”

Hughie doesn’t know if he doesn’t believe that, or if he just doesn’t want to. “And you? Eight years later? You think- what, Becca’d see us, think it was a great idea?”

Butcher’s expression creases, but not in the way Hughie had been expecting. “Oh, Hughie. She’d be thinking about pegging you through the fucking floor before I’d even said a word.”

“Okay, I’m gunna- plough right on through that.”

Butcher snorts. “That’s what she said.”

Hughie closes his eyes, as though it might do a thing to hide his involuntary smile, and huffs a gentle laugh that, in any other situation, might have been a sob.

Then he takes a deep breath, and he says, “It won’t happen again. I swear. I’m sorry.”

It’s not enough, not even close, but it’s all he’s got. He’s not asking for forgiveness, just the change to keep trying, and he thinks Butcher understands.

And then he knows he does, because Butcher rolls his eyes and sighs and begrudgingly grits out, “I- accept your apology.”

“Fuck, you’re not even gunna spank me or anything?”

“You been a bad boy, Hughie?”

“Oh my God.” Hughie had not thought that through, has to just stop for a moment as his brain short-circuits with the many and varied images suddenly conjured up, all his blood in his brain rushing south with the lowering of Butcher’s tone, deep and dangerous.

“Well, I’ll get thinking about a suitable punishment for you. And in the meantime-“ Butcher releases Hughie’s throat to pat his cheek, and grins, darkly. “You can spank it yourself. I’m going out.”

Hughie makes a strangled sound of objection, but he has no follow-up. There’s nothing he can possibly say. He shakes his head when Butcher raises his eyebrows expectantly, and then he stands there and watches him go, and then he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, and just breathes for a little while.

They’re okay. He’d know if they weren’t.

-

It’s only his due, Hughie tells himself. He fucked up, hurt the strongest man he’s ever met, and now he has to suffer for it, for as long as it takes Butcher to forgive him. He’s deeply aware of the length of time over which that man has so far demonstrated he can hold a grudge. He can’t take that kind of wait. Not when they could be killed at any moment.

Hughie also knows that the circumstances into which he’s been shoved have rendered Butcher both the central point for all of his problems, and the closest thing Hughie has to a therapist. And a friend.

Hughie doesn’t know which is worse.

He had to get rid of his phone, so he’s almost immediately bored in the motel room by himself, not in possession of a key, no idea where he’d even go, anyway, because he’s not entirely sure where they are and he has no idea how anybody survived before they could just google shit like that. Did they just leave a map in the room?

It's all probably by design, that he’s been left to stew in his own guilt and regret, he realises, when Butcher slams his way back in through the door with a duffel bag full of who-knows-what he sets carefully on the floor before flinging himself into the worn, stained armchair. He’s on the phone, apparently too engrossed in his conversation of swearing and demands and thinly veiled threats to even give Hughie a second glance.

Hughie tunes the noise out. He’s feeling bored and self-destructive and deep down he knows that sex is not the same as intimacy but at that moment it’s all he’s got.

He slides off the bed, onto his knees, and crawls, earns himself that second glance and then an appreciative double take. Butcher arches a brow but his conversation doesn’t falter, even when Hughie gets close enough to touch, even when he does, easing Butcher’s legs apart into an even more pronounced splay so he can settle between them.

Even when he looks up with a question in his eyes, Butcher’s stare remains impassive, but he’s holding the phone to his ear with one hand and he settles the other one on the arm of the chair, allowing Hughie to go ahead when he has the power to make him stop, still focused on his conversation.

Hughie doesn’t dare speak up when he might be overheard by whoever’s on the line, settles for moving slowly enough that he could be stopped at any point, is reminded viscerally of the first time they did this, of being enclosed within long legs, craving more but not daring to ask for it, unsure of where he stands.

That shouldn’t heighten his own enjoyment, but the edge of doubt makes his heart pound, his blood sizzle in his veins, his cock stir. His breathing’s coming faster by the time he’s unbuttoned Butcher’s jeans, is pulling his zipper down, gently eases him out through the slit in his briefs. He’s only slightly hard, but they haven’t really started yet, and Hughie relishes the opportunity to feel it harden on his tongue, filling his mouth, threatening to choke him.

There’s a small, almost imperceptible shift in Butcher’s tone, just a hardening to some of his consonants, a deeper intensity, and Hughie lets it vibrate through him. He leans in, inhales the clean, musky scent that’s definitely conditioned him to expect sex, that sends shivers down his spine, makes him want to close his eyes and savour the sensations but he doesn’t have time, knows Butcher will get impatient.

He’s feeling pretty impatient himself, hears Butcher’s conversation just as rumbling static in the background as he laps at gently stirring softness, and then takes it in his mouth.

Butcher lets out a long sigh that could easily be interpreted as exasperated, and Hughie’s lashes flutter at the warm weight that he can feel growing, pressing down on his tongue. It’s blissful, and it blocks out all else. Honestly, Homelander himself could walk through the door at that moment and Hughie wouldn’t want to stop. He feels powerful and vulnerable all at once, leans forward to take more, nearly groans when it begins to trigger his gag reflex but he knows he has to stay silent. Butcher will stop him otherwise.

There are soft, wet sounds as he chokes, but Butcher just speaks a little louder. Having someone who’s willing to sink to their knees and service him with enough enthusiasm that they can be heard in the background of a telephone call has to only add to his air of authority anyway.

Hughie had never realised, either, that he’d get off on being ignored, on his efforts being essentially meaningless and unworthy of comment, the only evidence of his success the continued swelling of Butcher’s cock on his tongue, the widening pressure in his throat. And having to stay silent, knowing that somebody’s listening but will never be able to know who he is or exactly what he’s doing is giving the act an edge he’d never thought he’d be able to appreciate.

Butcher’s making him realise a lot of new things about himself, every day.

And he’s constantly reminding Hughie that he can trust him, even when Hughie hasn’t done the same in response. He’s never been anything but honest, is single-minded in achieving his goals but has never pretended to be otherwise. Hughie wants to have that, but for now, he’ll settle for just worshipping it in the best way he knows.

He’s in control and will be until Butcher takes that from him, so he takes Butcher’s cock deep until he sees stars, pulls off to suckle at the tip, to swirl his tongue and enjoy the satiny-smooth slide against his lips, hot and slick with his spit. Annie could have put them both through a wall with barely a second thought, but she never gave him this, what he craves, that feeling of being taken and owned, of belonging. He can try to pretend, but he doesn’t want something normal, he wants this, even if it ends in fire and electricity and bruises.

Especially if it does.

He pleads with his eyes, unable to find his voice or use it without choking, but Butcher’s not looking at him, has his head tipped back, is staring at the ceiling as he continues to talk. Hughie might as well be a toy, just a soft wet hole for Butcher to shove into without a single reason to care. He shivers, tries to do more, to take Butcher’s cock deeper, to caress with his tongue, to wrap his lips around what he can reach and provide warm, wet suction. He takes as much as he can into his throat, and he doesn’t feel the need to breathe at all, embracing the burning in his lungs, the fading of his vision at the edges until his throat constricts involuntarily, fighting for air and there’s a fist clenched in his hair, yanking him back.

Hughie sways and tries to remember where he is, what he’s doing and why, and Butcher sighs impatiently, maybe at him. He’s still pulling at Hughie’s hair, just holding him there, sweet pinpricks of pain that ground him, make him feel centred. When he strains forwards, because he wants that cock in his mouth again, wants to be filled, to know he’s doing something good, Butcher doesn’t relent, and the pain intensifies, Hughie’s breathing ragged. His jeans are already chafing uncomfortably but this is a punishment or penance, maybe, and Hughie embraces it.

“You want me to hurt you, Hughie?” Butcher asks, having tossed his phone aside, having left Hughie on his knees, barely held upright by his hold but leaning in himself so their eyes can meet.

And Hughie can barely whimper, “Yes,” before he’s being gathered up or more accurately lifted entirely off his feet and thrown back onto the bed in a deeply arousing display of power and strength and- anger. Butcher’s angry. That’s okay. Hughie’s earned it. He lowers his gaze, but he’s expecting to be punished for his betray, for straying, and this isn’t that.

Butcher acts possessive, but he’s let Hughie get away with so much and has always been there to come back to, has literally risked his life to save Hughie from the mess of his own poor decisions. Not without complaint, of course. But he has the right to complain.

Butcher crosses to his bag and he opens a pocket on the side, and then he turns back, and in his hands there’s a length of rope.

“Uhh-“ Hughie begins, a little -very- shrilly, before he realises he has nothing to say. Instead he stares, and he swallows thickly while Butcher tests the give, threads it around and through his fingers a few times, sets it aside in a small, coiled pile close to the corner of the bed. He crawls over Hughie, straddles his thighs, looks down at him, still so impassive it makes Hughie’s heart hurt.

And then slowly, gently, Butcher undresses him. With the odd covetous touch, the smoothing of his palms or the soft graze of his fingers, it’s not exactly impersonal but it’s not their particular brand of intimacy, either, and Hughie’s trembling with anticipation by the time he’s been stripped naked, craving Butcher’s kiss, the touch of that mouth, the reminder that he’s not alone in this. That neither of them are.

But then, Butcher was, for some time, while Hughie was with Annie.

A frisson of fear runs though him when Butcher picks up the rope again, arranges Hughie to his liking, shifts him up the bed and contemplates for a long moment before, still so gently, cradling Hughie’s crossed wrists in his lap and binding them together. It’s tight, but not painfully so, and Hughie’s mind is trying to convince him to panic except it’s what he wants, isn’t it? A chance to prove himself, that he can be good, that he’ll stay where Butcher puts him. He’ll do whatever Butcher needs if it’ll bridge the chasm that’s forming between them.

It'll be worth it. Butcher won’t really hurt him. He’s violent and vengeful and Hughie’s earned his anger, but they need each other. Butcher’s proved that, and Hughie’s been given a chance to do it too.

His wrists are guided above his head. He can’t part them, but when they’re secured to the headboard there’s enough give for him to make himself comfortable. Butcher lets him, just watches. His denim-clad legs bracket Hughie’s thighs, warm and coarse as Butcher twists and retrieves, from one of his boots-

Hughie doesn’t allow himself to tense when Butcher shows him the knife, flicks the blade out, pointedly sets it on the bedside table because this is still safe, he’s still giving Hughie the choice, doesn’t want to really hurt him. The realisation hits Hughie with a renewed rush that makes him feel light-headed with the promise of what’s to come.

And Butcher just smiles darkly, and begins to unbutton his shirt.

It’s so easy to forget, or to become convinced that Hughie had dreamed it before, that Butcher is intensely gorgeous, smouldering while dressed but impossibly stunning beneath the clothes. So rarely exposed, he wraps himself in dark fabric and harsh words and Hughie is the only one who gets to see what’s underneath. The thought makes him whimper and his hips twitch, and for the first time he pulls at his bonds experimentally, feels the bite of the ropes. It’s ridiculous to try, he knows, but it feels good and it grounds him and it makes Butcher’s eyes darken to see him struggle and fuck, if they don’t get killed in the next couple of days this is definitely something they have to try some more.

“Now you stay right there, Hughie,” Butcher says, with a smile more in his voice than in his expression, his fingers tracing patterns over Hughie’s sternum, his shirt hanging open, framing his chest, his jeans unbuttoned and slipping low. “Because I want you to do as you’re told, for a fucking change.”

Hughie swallows and nods, captivated by the dangerous edge in that tone, craving so much more but willing to wait or more accurately unwilling to do anything that might risk Butcher deciding to stop.

Butcher knows what he looks like, has to, uses it to his advantage in that moment, works his shirt off, back over his shoulders with plenty of gratuitous twisting, the muscles of his stomach and chest and arms taut and defined. Hughie wants to touch him so bad, but he knows why he’s being denied, why his cock’s hardening but being given no attention aside from a pleased glance and a smirk. Butcher licks his lips and then just does it again, slower, when Hughie groans.

He stands, but he makes sure Hughie can see him as he kicks off his boots, peels off his socks with a bend that shows off the glorious curve of his ass, shuffles his jeans off an inch at a time until Hughie’s panting with the effort of holding back the urge to beg for more.

The briefs, tight and black and barely containing the growing bulge beneath are last, dropped with a casual grace that makes arousal ripple through Hughie in a wave, his hips rolling without permission from his brain, his cock butting against his stomach. They're so far apart, and Hughie mewls pitifully as Butcher goes even further, just to where he's left his coat, to retrieve lube from the pocket. He brings it with him when he comes back, lets his gaze rove across Hughie's prone body with such intensity Hughie can practically feel the heat of it on his skin.

"I do like you like this. We never have enough time for me to make you wait," Butcher muses, apparently without intent, but Hughie's mind is getting tangled up in the guilt, the knowledge that if he'd invited Butcher to that hotel room for a night, he would have said yes. They could have had hours, could have gone from soft and gentle to hard and fast then back again, could really have explored this thing they have, maybe begun to figure out what it is. It would have been good, even if neither of them learned a fucking thing.

But they can't change the past, can't take back any of Hughie's decisions, no matter how terrible, and at least for that moment, he doesn't have to make any, except to call an end to this little experiment if he needs to. It's not possible for him to fuck this up, and it's an intense relief. Hughie doesn't doubt Butcher will free him the moment he objects, that he'll hold Hughie as close as he dares until he feels human again, that maybe they won't fuck but they'll still have each other.

And Butcher's body, what little of it that Hughie's allowed to touch, essentially just the meeting point between his thighs and Butcher's calves, is solid and warm, reassuring. He wants to set his hands to every lovely, tanned inch of that skin, squirms just to assure them both he's making the attempt and receives a soothing touch to his chest.

"Don't struggle, Hughie. You want to have to explain to anyone why you've got fucking rope burns on your wrists?"

Hughie decidedly does not. He subsides, not without pouting, and then when Butcher's exploratory touches become a harsh, pinching twist of one of his nipples, he keens and arches, but he doesn't pull at the ropes. He doesn't want to get away, anyway, just closer.

"Good boy."

Hughie shudders, feels his cock pulse hopefully, with just a bead of the pre-come he's sure he's sure will be puddling on his belly by the time Butcher's done with him.

"For someone with a praise kink, your behaviour is fucking diabolical."

"I can be good. I will. I swear."

That earns him a smirk, an arched brow, and Butcher leans down as though to kiss him but is just reaching up to tap the ropes. "You don't get a fucking choice this time, Hughie."

If anything, that makes Hughie shudder worse -better?- all too aware that Butcher can clearly read the helpless desire in his face and his eyes. Butcher touches their noses, a teasing parody of their usual affection, and then he sits up and reaches for the lube.

"This is gunna hurt," he warns, and Hughie's fucking aching for it, too lost in watching liquid drip down capable fingers to contemplate their positions, to realise that what he's expecting cannot be possible.

Butcher's right. It does hurt.

When he reaches back and -Hughie can't see, fuck, he needs to see- slides one of those fingers inside himself, Hughie makes a senseless sound caught between an objection and a plea and nearly shreds the skin on his wrists with how violently he struggles, desperate to touch. Technically he can only make assumptions about what Butcher's doing, reaching behind himself, up on his knees, his body toned and his cock visibly hardening. But Hughie knows, is intimately familiar with how it feels and there's nothing else that can be making Butcher's brow crease, making him bite his lip like Hughie wants to, Butcher's eyes going lidded as he smiles down at him.

"Butcher, please- oh my God," Hughie babbles, nonsensically, earns only a politely interested expression when Butcher straightens, applies more lube. To two fingers. God, fuck, he went right in with two and Hughie wants to see, to touch, to taste more than he ever has in his life.

"Something you want, Hughie?" is asked with all the faux-innocence Butcher can muster, although he does lean forwards and reach out with his clean hand to rub an assessing thumb under the ropes around Hughie's wrists, presumably checking for injuries and blood flow.

"Please let me see. Let me help. I'll do anything you want."

"What I want-" Butcher pauses to hiss as he reaches back again, expression creasing in pain and relief- "is for you to stay right there. And think about what you’ve done. And- agh-“ He’s panting now, too, struggling to take whatever he’s pressing inside of himself at a ruthless pace, eager or in a hurry or just enjoying the pain, the struggle. Hughie squirms, but he’s careful of his wrists. Each twist of burning pain makes his cock lurch but he knows, somehow, that if Butcher sees blood, he will stop.

“There will be a test,” Butcher gasps out, shoulders shifting, back arching, one big hand coming down beside Hughie’s head to steady himself as he hangs his head and groans, long and low, “Only one correct answer.”

Hughie sobs. This feels like a punishment, more than any pain ever could, the denial worse than anything else, Butcher so close and vulnerable and out of Hughie’s reach, just like Hughie’s always been terrified he would be. He wants this, because no matter how much it hurts, how hard and unfulfilled he is, how much more he craves, Butcher is still touching him. He’s still here, and they’re still trying, and Hughie hasn’t ruined them despite his worst efforts.

Butcher refreshes the lube, has to straighten up to do it, slicks three fingers and has the nerve to give Hughie a wink as he reaches back, steadying himself with that hand again, head hanging, his hair damp at the edges, skin glistening with sweat, laboured breathing interspersed with small grunts of genuine effort. It’s all Hughie can do to try and sear the entire image into his mind, to remember the futility of straining his shoulders although he wants the rope marks more than ever, just to convince himself that this really happened. It seems utterly unbelievable, that Butcher could be rendered so vulnerable, that he could have anything worth proving in such a way.

His body tenses and twists, muscles standing out, movements rhythmic and persistent, and when he applies yet more lube and goes back for another try, Hughie can hear the slick, wet sounds behind the motions, leaving no doubt of what’s occurring.

“Please,” Hughie dares to breathe as the motions slow and Butcher sags, catching his breath. Lidded eyes meet his, and how could he ever have thought he’d be able to live without this? Hughie has no clue, can’t even imagine coming to such a ridiculous conclusion in this moment, Butcher hotter and closer than he’s ever been, Hughie the only one creating barriers between them.

In keeping that that lack of barriers, Butcher wraps lube-slick fingers around Hughie’s cock and squeezes without a word of warning. Hughie makes a strangled, garbled sound, bucks up into the touch, is hard and dripping but Butcher’s touch is impossibly warm, transferring the heat from deep inside him. Hughie has no idea how he keeps anything resembling composure, whimpers and thrusts into the tightening grasp, fighting the urge to come immediately except Butcher’s grip shifts and so does he and it’s only then that Hughie actually realises, really dares to believe what’s happening.

They both groan, low and heartfelt, at the first catch of Hughie’s cockhead on Butcher’s slick, swollen rim, but somehow, on trembling legs, with sweat dripping down his chest, Butcher manages to lick his lips and find the words, “Question time."

Hughie had been staring, helpless, at the point where they’re practically joined, where Butcher is hot and wet and open, but at that he lets his head fall back with a whimper. He only meets Butcher’s eyes when his name is growled in warning, tugs at the ropes around his wrists to sharpen his focus with the pain, because this is important, he can see it-

“Has it ever been like this, with anyone else?”

And Hughie is ready to say no, already knows that Butcher is it for him, is what he wants, except at that moment Butcher lowers himself down, and he’s done the work, gravity enough to ease Hughie into him with barely a hitch. It’s all Hughie can do to keep breathing, air escaping his lungs with an overwhelmed, shrill sound as the clutch of Butcher’s rim slides down, Hughie’s cock squeezed, dragged into the soft, wet velvet of his insides. He wants to cry. Of course it’s never fucking been like this. How could it have been? It’s fucking transcendent and he fights his bonds, desperate for skin contact, to set his hands to Butcher’s sides and feel his chest heaving, to guide him with touches to his waist and slow him, because it’s too much, or drag him down until Hughie’s deep inside him, fucking into him, taking and claiming him.

Except Butcher doesn’t know any of that, and he deserves to, and it takes Hughie a moment of just breathing through the blissful heat, the rippling clutch of Butcher’s still-tight hole -and fuck, how long has it been? Just how special is Hughie?- to focus. He has to remember what the fuck the question was, even though Butcher’s looking down at him, glistening with sweat, just as wrecked as Hughie feels, both of them already lost to each other when they’ve barely even started. Babbling _yes, yes_ is instinctive, but Hughie panics briefly to think that’s what he might have blurted out, because the correct answer, he knows with a sudden and startling clarity, is, “Never. It’s never been like this. Butcher-“

Butcher smiles, rolls his hips, steals Hughie’s breath away with perfect, squirming pressure. He’s panting too, flushed and entirely gorgeous, and in that moment, no matter what’s happened between them, what’s going on out there, all the choices that have been taken away from them- he’s entirely for Hughie.

Except of course, he doesn’t know any of that either, because Hughie can’t find the words but Butcher knows to ask, despite the risk of this answer being the wrong one, “Did you say her name like that? Like she was your whole fucking world?”

Hughie sobs. “I couldn’t. I kept thinking yours. I was terrified I’d blurt it out.”

“Well,” and Butcher’s smug, self-satisfied, and Hughie feels only pride at having caused it, “You can say it as often as you fucking want, now. Hughie,” he says, a reminder, because Hughie’s floating, drowning in sensation, “Say it.”

“Butcher-“ Hughie pants, half in response, half instinctive, “Please. Let me touch you.”

One of Butcher’s hands wraps around his throat, squeezing and steadying all at once, sharpening his focus, somehow helping him to catch his breath. “Next time.”

It’s a promise, but the warning behind it is clear. Hughie needs not to fuck this up.

He nods and accepts his fate.

Butcher’s taut, toned thighs flex as he lifts his gorgeous body with a small, pleased smile on his beautiful face. And Hughie wants more, so much, craves the sensation of Butcher’s skin beneath his fingertips, against his lips and between his teeth, but this isn’t about him. He does what he can, risks hitching his hips to meet Butcher when he sinks down again and receives a gratified murmur in response, not quite a groan but working towards it.

It’s still almost entirely Butcher making the physical effort, though. He’s riding Hughie’s cock, without a doubt, as though the rest of him is incidental, feelings betrayed only by the covetous looks and touches he’s never been able to hold back, with Hughie. They move together so well, and if emotions weren’t running so high Hughie would love every instant of this.

As it is, he’s overwhelmed by sensation, Butcher’s body hot and tight where it’s wrapped around him and everywhere else, Butcher’s teeth once again embedded in his own bottom lip as his brow creases with effort, as he chases his pleasure, as he fists his cock and fuck but his ass clenches tight in arrhythmic ripples, driving Hughie closer to the edge he has no idea how he hasn’t accidentally crossed already, just from how shamelessly erotic the whole display is.

It’s all relentlessly hard and fast, punctuated only by the sounds of their laboured breathing, the squeaking of mattress springs, the slaps of skin meeting skin. Hughie can barely think, knows only that he never wants it to end, that he has to have it more than just this once, that he can’t possibly let this go, not again. He tries to meet Butcher’s rolling motions with thrusts of his hips, earns a punched-out gasp every time he gets it right, is willing to spend hours perfecting it if that’s what it takes for Butcher to allow him to do this again. He wants, needs and craves so much more.

Butcher grinds down as he comes, his fist a blur of motion as he strokes his cock frantically, strips it, coaxes out sharp pulses of fluid that spatter them both. His mouth falls open but he’s silent and everything about that moment, the contractions of his body, the way he looks, the pounding of Hughie’s traitorous heart and, fuck, the smell of come Hughie wants to lick from dexterous fingers- Hughie can’t stand it.

He comes with a sob, buries deep and pulls so hard at his bindings the headboard creaks as he inches deeper, just a fraction into the wet, willing softness of Butcher’s body and fuck he doesn’t want to close his eyes, doesn’t want to miss an instant of that indulgent, sated smile, Butcher’s expression genuinely relaxed, but he has to, just for long enough to miss Butcher sagging forwards, grabbing for the knife, and at least letting him lower his arms.

Unable to do much more, his muscles alternately like liquid and solid steel, his skin still tingling, Hughie sets his palm against Butcher’s chest to feel his racing heart and rides the rest of the wave. He shudders and gasps when Butcher clenches down around him, ekes out a last rolling thrust and pulse of come when Hughie realises fully that the wetness he’s thrusting into is his own, scrabbles with his nails at Butcher’s pectoral, as high as he can reach in a vague attempt to drag him closer, even as aftershocks ripple through him.

“Please, let me kiss you.”

Butcher pretends to consider it. He’s already made up his mind, Hughie knows, is just dragging out the torturous doubt for another few seconds although he does at least wrap his hands around Hughie’s wrists to work at untying the ropes.

Then slowly, gently, he presses his lips to the tender, red marks there, ducks his head, looks into Hughie’s eyes and asks, “Did you kiss her?”

He knows the answer. They both do. Hughie feels it like a stab through the heart anyway. There are tears in his eyes, because Butcher doesn’t just know, he saw. “Yes.”

Butcher sighs, his breath warm against the sensitive skin on the inside of Hughie’s wrists, and suddenly Hughie’s alight with what he has to say, even if Butcher doesn’t necessarily want to hear it.

“I’ll never kiss anyone but you again, if you don’t want.”

Butcher tenses. His eyes go wide. He’s speechless. Hughie doesn’t care; even if they die tomorrow, or later today, even, he’s said it. He’s taken a step towards the truth. Whether Butcher believes him or not, Hughie means it. They’ve come too far -and there’s no skirting around it, they’ve come too often- to deny that this means something. Hughie’s willing to bet what uncertain future he has on this.

Hughie’s cock, softening and wet and overly sensitive, slips free when Butcher shifts and they both groan at the loss, but it’s okay because they’re kissing, tangled together, Hughie’s fingers threaded through Butcher’s hair and Butcher’s arms wrapped around him and the sex might have been fucking transcendent but this-

This is perfect.

Hughie never wants it to stop.

There’s probably a fierce irony in the fact that he originally chose this man because he wasn’t ready to fall for anyone again.

-

The others maybe get there while they’re vaguely considering moving in the direction of the bathroom.

Butcher’s a fucking gentleman and Hughie won’t hear anyone claim otherwise; he throws the blanket from the bed over Hughie before he grabs one of the pillows to cover himself. Not that it’s entirely necessary; Mothers Milk is first through the door and he recoils at the smell of sex, presses his nose into the crease of his elbow like he’s filtering it from the air he breathes, squeezing his eyes almost closed so all he can possibly see is a blur.

“You are both the fucking worst!”

“Fucking knock next time!”

“We’re being stalked by every alphabet agency and psychotic supe on the planet, who has time to knock?”

“Good thing this is attracting way less fucking attention, then!”

“Can you- please?” Mothers Milk asks Hughie helplessly, gesturing to Butcher.

“Don’t look at me.” Hughie holds his hands up, has thankfully by that point managed to pull on his pants and retains some shred of decency. “I have no control over him!”

“So let me get this straight. We have to deal with the disturbing reality of knowing what you two get up to- and he’s still an asshole.”

Hughie grimaces. In his peripheral vision, he sees Butcher grin, and open his mouth. _“No,”_ Hughie says, because he knows that’s definitely going to be a comment about his asshole and nobody needs to hear it.

Butcher closes his mouth.

Mothers Milk throws up his hands.

-

It’s late, too late, when Hughie realises. In fact, he’s standing in the middle of fucking nowhere, knowing his friends are imprisoned, wondering what the fuck he’s going to do, watching Butcher drive away because caring about each other isn’t the same as agreeing with each other any more, when it finally occurs to him.

He sees Robin when he’s with Annie. Looking at him like she doesn’t know who the hell he is, like he’s done something terrible and she can’t imagine what the fuck he’s thinking.

And just that once, she’d disappeared in the moment when he’d kissed Annie. But that moment, it hadn’t just contained that kiss. It had been when Butcher had arrived, to warn him off.

It was having Butcher with him, that had let her go.

He starts moving before he can see her again, before she can make him wonder what the fuck he’s done.

There are some things he needs to fix.


End file.
